


we’re changing like the tides

by brodinsons (aeon_entwined)



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), DCU (Movies), Superman - All Media Types, Superman/Batman (Comics)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Gen, Light Angst, M/M, Outdoor Sex, middle aged romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-18 05:23:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2336714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeon_entwined/pseuds/brodinsons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I took a series of brief prompts from twitter pals with the intention of writing a series of ficlets based on those prompts (set vaguely in the soon-to-be Man of Steel/Dawn of Justice fusion 'verse). This is my first foray into the S/B sector as a writer, as opposed to a lurker. Which is a bit terrifying in its own right given the levels of talent already at play in here. Go easy on me, y'all. Chapter titles indicate the general theme and who they're for. Ratings will vary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. winter wonderland (for @deflowerkelley with the prompt "christmas")

Their first Christmas is actually a lot of firsts.

It's the first time Clark realizes that his home is as much in Gotham as it is in Metropolis or Smallville. It's the first time he realizes how used to his presence in their lives the kids have become. It's the first time he manages to summon the nerve to ask Ma to come out to the manor for the holiday. She's known about Bruce, obviously, but he hasn't outright approached her about it and said "Ma, this is the man I want to spend the rest of my life with". Still, inviting her to spend Christmas in Gotham is just about as close as he's going to get for the moment. They haven't talked about the long-term yet. People like them don't have the luxury of thinking about the long-term, or so Bruce says.

It's been snowing lightly for a week, so the exterior of the manor is already suitably decorated in naturally-provided drifts of white. Along with the occasional rut of muddy slush. Cassandra and Damian have been taking unfair advantage of the pebble-ridden drifts along the sides of the manor's drive during snowball fights started at random whenever someone's wounded ego could only be satisfied through all out bloodshed.

As it is, Ma and Alfred are in the kitchen, conspiring over who'll get to make their special recipe of stuffing for Christmas dinner, and he's standing in the study, overlooking the tail end of the latest war on the manor's front lawn. (For the record, Dick, Kara and Tim actually managed to pull out a surprising victory over Cassandra, Kon and Damian.)

While the outside of the manor is relatively staid, snow aside, the inside is decorated to a degree that Clark has only seen in the fanciest holiday-themed department stores. It's like a winter wonderland in here, cliché as the descriptor might be. The strings of lights through every room are spectacular, the various and sundry decorations on every available flat surface have provided the kids with endless hours of entertainment, and the tree itself leaves Clark feeling six years old all over again. The star atop the peak just brushes the ceiling, giving him the impression that he's staring up at a monolith. Lois had made a few comments about the size of the tree in relation to other topics when she'd swung through just two days ago, and Clark hadn't been able to stop laughing for an hour at the look on Bruce's face.

It would all be too much, if it wasn't to do with so many people he's come to care for so deeply.

"I can hear you," he says to the specter lurking in the doorway, apparently trying to be subtle about it. "I thought you'd given up trying to do that."

"Damn," comes the gentle reply, the word laced with what he can only describe as a self-satisfied smirk.

Clark turns his head slightly, then exhales a contented sigh as strong arms come around his middle and a chin comes to rest on his shoulder. He closes his eyes and leans back into Bruce's solid bulk.

They stay like that for a while; quiet and wrapped around each other, looking down at the kids scattered across the manor's grounds.

"I can't believe...." he trails off, prompting Bruce to give him a little nudge with his chin. "I can't believe I have this. _We_ have this. It's just ... so much."

At that, Bruce turns him, shifting them both around so they can face each other. The look on his face isn't one Clark sees often; the nakedly honest appraisal and understanding, but it still takes his breath away. Bruce's eyes are paler than his own, and they sometimes appear almost translucent in the right light. Right now, they're impossibly bright and focused on his face with almost discomfiting intensity.

"Everything or nothing, that's what I promised you," Bruce murmurs, prompting Clark to glance down and away, a flush staining his cheeks. "I can't believe I still haven't scared you off."

At that, Clark glances back up, searching out Bruce's eyes again. "Not a chance in hell."

They hold each others' gaze for a moment, before Clark reaches up, sliding his fingers into Bruce's thick hair, and tilting his head for a kiss.

It's slow, wet, and lingering. Clark groans as Bruce's tongue presses into his mouth, then returns the favor the moment it withdraws. Finally, he forces himself to pull back, putting an inch of space between their lips so they can breathe. For someone who doesn't actually have to for an hour or more, Bruce has the uncanny ability to make him completely forget that.

He rests his forehead against Bruce's, an impossibly fond smile on his lips.

"Merry Christmas."


	2. thinking about you and me (for @smallvllle with the prompt "books")

Bruce picks up the magazine he'd placed on the nightstand after Damian had come looking for him and requested assistance with the craftsmanship of his latest personal stock of batarangs, then settles into bed, stretching his legs out in front of him.

He takes a careful survey of the room, and once it passes muster, quickly slips the reading glasses from the drawer at the bottom of the nightstand. If said drawer happens to be shielded with lead, well, that's no one's business but his.

It's not that he's _ashamed_ of the glasses, but he'd rather keep the number of people who are aware that he uses them down to himself and Alfred.

So, he can be forgiven the visible start he gives when a voice addresses him from the window.

"So that's why you never read when I'm over."

Bruce almost drops the magazine, then clenches his fingers in the pages and turns to glare at the caped figure perched lightly on the open windowsill.

"Some might consider it rude to spy on people."

Clark laughs, then leans against the frame, the look on his face prompting something hot and almost uncomfortable to coil in Bruce's belly. He frowns, mentally chastising himself. He's almost fifty, for god's sake. They've been together for almost a decade. Nothing about this is new. So why does he still feel like a teenager with his first crush.

"You're talking to the guy with x-ray vision. Which you take advantage of all the time, I might add. Pot, meet kettle."

Bruce tries to glare a little harder at the impressively silhouetted figure in his window, then gives up the ghost when it's obvious his ire is bouncing off Clark as harmlessly as any bullet ever aimed at him. He grunts and flips the coverlet on the other half of the bed over.

"Get in if you're coming in. And close the window. There's a draft."

"Sir, yes, sir."

Clark floats through the window, crimson cape spilling out behind him in such a natural way that Bruce almost feels just a little envious. Then, a blur of primary colors later, and Clark is slipping under the coverlet next to him wearing nothing but a pair of fitted black boxers and a smile.

"Smugness doesn't suit you."

"Oh, you're one to talk."

Bruce glances over the frames of his glasses, now trying very hard to keep his heartbeat steady so Clark won't catch on to anything. This is exactly what he was afraid of: Clark mocking him.

It's not intentionally cruel or malicious, just an unconscious aside from the demigod who will apparently never age. He looks exactly the same as the first time Bruce got it into his head eleven years ago (and four months and three weeks) to fist his fingers in that lush black hair and hold that stubborn idiot still for a kiss. The thought that Clark will look exactly as he does now when Bruce is lying in some hospital bed terrifies him.

He's jolted out of his mild spiral of panic by warm lips brushing along the column of his throat. Bruce's fingers tighten further on the pages of the magazine, the distinct sound of paper tearing bringing him back to earth with a proverbial thump.

"You look so hot," Clark's mumbling against his throat, and Bruce's attempts at reining in his pulse are quickly being shot to pieces. He swallows, discarding the magazine in favor of closing one hand over the arm Clark has slung around his waist and the other in that aforementioned black hair.

He's suddenly aware that the craven glasses that started all this are still on his face, but when he goes to try and remove them, Clark suddenly abandons his throat and fastens their mouths together. Bruce makes a confused sound in the back of his throat, then fists both hands in Clark's hair as Clark starts practically fucking his mouth with his tongue.

It's rather difficult to breathe, but Bruce honestly couldn't give a damn. Clark's hands are all over him; one cupping the back of his neck while the other goes on an exploratory mission underneath the coverlet. He makes something suspiciously close to a muffled whimper when Clark's broad hand cups him through the cotton of his boxers, fingers tightening in Clark's hair to a degree that would be excruciatingly painful if he were anything close to human.

He makes a few more successive noises as Clark starts working him through the fabric (fabric that he's already well on the way to ruining thanks to the stain spreading where the head of his cock is tenting up against Clark's palm).

Then, once his lungs actively start protesting for air and his eyes reluctantly flutter open, Bruce startles and makes an aborted shake of his head.

Clark immediately pulls back an inch or two, eyeing him worriedly even as his hand stays pressed firmly over Bruce's aching cock.

Flushed and unaccountably flustered, Bruce gestures at his face and glances down, trying not to see the expression on Clark's face when he sees the fogged up lenses of his glasses.

"Couldn't see."

There's a small sound that could be a laugh, followed by Clark's free hand reaching up and gently pulling the offending eye-wear off his face. _That_ is followed by an impossibly gentle kiss that soothes away all the nerves that had been knotting themselves together in Bruce's stomach.

"Next time, I'm wearing mine to bed. Let's see how long it takes you to get me all steamed up."


	3. wild like the river (for @roywallys with the prompt "bad weather")

A fork of lightning lashes across the sky, followed almost immediately by an impossibly loud crack of thunder.

" _Shit!_ " Bruce clamps his hands onto Clark's bare shoulders and holds on for dear life as he stares at the storm swirling around them, wide-eyed and disbelieving despite having lived this reality for more than a decade.

Clark grins up at him, drenched in rain, soaking up the crackling energy of the storm, feeling more alive than he has in weeks. His powers come from the sun, as most everybody knows, but that doesn't mean he can't appreciate the raw potential coiled in the likes of a thunder storm.

It's taken some convincing, but he eventually wore down Bruce's defenses to the point that he agreed to give this a try.

This, being sex in the midst of a storm over the skies of Gotham.

They're sheltered from any prying eyes by dark clouds on all sides, as well as above and below, which leaves them completely alone but for each other in the midst of pouring rain and flashes of lighting. Clark knows where to stay to keep them out of the range of being struck, but even so, Bruce seems more than a little dubious about having nothing between him and the ground but Clark's horizontal body.

They'd practiced a little in the bedroom, to give Bruce the chance to figure out how the physical logistics might work out when your partner is hovering in midair.

Putting practice into application is proving to be slightly more challenging.

"It's okay, there won't be another one for at least ten minutes. Promise," Clark implores earnestly.

He hears Bruce grumble something that sounds suspiciously like _"perfect, right in time for you getting your cock up my ass"_ , but he doesn't cease his efforts to get them better situated. Bruce may be well into his forties, but he never ceases to amaze Clark with his levels of flexibility. He's more limber than most men half his age and really, he usually puts Clark to shame with his warm-up routines.

When he's finally settled, Clark rests both hands lightly on Bruce's hips, coaxing him into a gentle rocking motion that nudges the cleft of his ass right up against Clark's progressively interested cock. It feels lovely, and the visual Bruce is providing right now is absolutely breathtaking.

Naked as the day he was born, scarred and bruised to hell and back, drenched with cleansing rain; he looks like a demigod himself. If Clark were inclined towards more flowery writing, he might compare Bruce to Hades or Ares; a god in his element.

"Are you going to look all day or are you actually going to be doing some of the work here?"

Clark grins at the waspish tone, underscored with only the faintest hint of nerves. Bruce's heartbeat is relatively steady, considering their surroundings, but Clark can smell the arousal pouring off him, helped along by the stiffening cock pressed against his belly.

"Hush," Clark murmurs over the rain, sliding a hand over the curve of Bruce's incredible ass. He strokes over the cleft for a few seconds, then presses in with one slick finger.

Bruce stiffens slightly above him, then almost immediately relaxes into it with an audible sigh. They work up to it slowly, first one finger, then two, then three. Clark would be a bit more inclined towards their more adventurous exploits if they weren't almost five thousand feet in the air. For now, they keep it straightforward and easily manageable with the added gymnastics necessary to stay balanced on each other.

"Now," Bruce groans, arching back as Clark curls three fingers deeper into his body, stretching and working him open. "Fuck, _now_ , Clark.."

The storm around them is almost unnaturally quiet, the rain softening to a gentle drizzle as Clark grips Bruce around the waist and lifts, carefully easing him onto his cock. The first slide as Bruce seats himself on his lap borders on pain, it's so intense. Clark bites out a groan and curls up, grabbing for Bruce's waist again. Bruce's eyes are clenched shut and Clark knows what it feels like, knows the certainty that you're about to be split in half until the pressure plateaus and you can breathe again.

"Babe," he whispers breathlessly, reaching up with one hand to touch Bruce's cheek, relishing the way Bruce's slate blue eyes gradually flutter open. "Christ, look at you.."

He's seen Bruce in just about every conceivable way, shape and form, but this .... this is something on an entirely new level.

Bruce is rolling his hips now, easing into something like a rhythm. Clark tightens the fingers curled over Bruce's hip until he knows there'll be a new bruise in the shape of his fingertips painted over the curve of Bruce's waist. Bruce doesn't seem inclined to make a fuss about it; he's letting his head fall back, one hand braced on Clark's bent knee and the other on his abdomen, giving himself two points of contact to stay balanced.

Everything about this is so impossible, Clark almost can't believe it's happening. He can't believe Bruce's trust in him runs this deep. He can't believe he's earned the privilege of seeing the man with this many shields lowered, this many walls torn down.

"Bruce-"

He's trying to match the pace Bruce already set, jerking his hips up every time Bruce grinds down, but it's hard to keep himself leashed and give himself up completely at the same time. Bruce, on the other hand, is completely lost to it. He's tossing his head back, groaning with every distant rumble of possible thunder, scrabbling almost desperately at Clark's knee and belly.

" _Bruce-!_ "

Clark's orgasm broadsides him.

Everything melts away in a wash of muted white, and he clutches Bruce almost painfully tight. There's a flash of lightning some distance away, followed by a crack of thunder, and he comes back to himself to find Bruce staring down at him, one hand working his cock, his expression like he'd just found a doorway to another world.

Clark reaches for him, arching up to find his mouth, only to find his throat instead as Bruce throws his head back again. His entire body jerks and spasms as he comes. Clark eases him through it, dragging wet kisses over the line of his collarbones and up to his jawline.

Finally, Bruce collapses onto him, spent. Clark wraps both arms around him and just floats, utterly secure in the knowledge that Bruce trusted him to do this and they both got more than what they wanted out of it.

"Clark."

"Mn?"

"It's getting a little cold."

Clark smiles, then cracks an eye open to see Bruce watching him, eyes calm and almost steady. With Bruce, there's really no such think as afterglow. There's coming down from the orgasm, and that's about it. His recovery time is a bit scary at times.

"Alright, ladies and gentlebats, if you'd please return to your seats and keep your seat-belts fastened-"

He's cut off by Bruce leaning up and sealing their mouths together, and really, who's he to complain?


	4. take me down by the water (for @rudgebacks with the prompt "venice")

Clark could say he was surprised by the ambush waiting for him at the manor, but really, he was more thrilled than anything else.

The kids managed to get him blindfolded (with a sworn promise not to cheat) and out into the waiting limo in less time than it took for him to ask "where's Bruce". The clamor of voices wishing him a safe trip gradually fade into the background as the limo glides away from the manor, and he has no one to blame but himself for jumping when Batman's voice filters through the partition as he hears it slide down.

"Superman? Bound and defenseless? Whatever shall I do with this unexpected gift?"

Clark exhales a rough laugh, angling his blindfolded head towards the source of the voice, unable to stop grinning. He wonders, idly, how long it took Bruce to put this particular venture into action. The amount of people involved speaks to quite a bit of planning.

"I have a deadline tomorrow," he smirks a little, stretching his legs out on the seat as he settles in for what he can only assume is a short drive to the private Wayne Enterprises landing strip just outside the city. "Are you planning on kidnapping me for just a night?"

There's shifting from the driver's seat, followed by the slight uptick of Bruce's heartbeat. "Ms. Lane is more than capable of holding down the fort in your absence. She assured me of it, then told me, and I quote, to get out of her office before she chased me out with a rolled up newspaper."

Clark laughs outright this time, the anecdote providing enough images of Bruce being chased out of the Planet like a stray dog with Lois hot on his heels to last him for at least a month.

"Where are we going, then? You've kidnapped me, and I'm at your mercy."

"Oh, you're about to find out just how _merciful_ I can be."

-

When the plane touches down and Bruce finally takes the blindfold (and specially-designed headphones to keep him from snooping) off, Clark discovers that not only are they not in the U.S., they're in another continent entirely.

He's been around the world more times than he can count, both in costume and not, but he rarely has the time to actually slow down and enjoy the places he visits. Somehow, in that strange way he has of remembering the most seemingly inconsequential things people say, Bruce decided to make his dream of going on vacation to Venice a reality.

They tour the Basilica (Bruce almost buys out a personal tour so they could have the entire church to themselves, but Clark steers him away from it with no small amount of coaxing), visit St. Mark’s Square (it's suspiciously quiet as they explore the grounds, but Clark elects not to say anything since Bruce seems far too pleased with himself), ride a gondola through the city's canals (this outing is definitely rigged, since there's a hired singer or violinist at odd points through the tour and not a gawking tourist as far as the eye can see, but Clark can't find it in himself to do anything but lean over and kiss Bruce soundly as they float down the river).

The Hotel Danieli is hosting them for the next week (with the exception of any world-ending catastrophes requiring their intervention, of course).

Clark hasn't seen the likes of a hotel like the Danieli outside of fiction. It's impossibly grandiose, and it almost makes him feel like he's stepped into the fantasy of about a dozen different architects and designers. The effect is helped along somewhat by the fact that Bruce bought out the lagoon view suites for the duration of their stay.

He approaches the bay windows overlooking said lagoon, then carefully, oh so carefully, lays a hand against the glass. They've been together so long already and Bruce still manages to sweep him off his feet.

"You're thinking about something," say the strong arms encircling his waist.

Clark exhales a contented sound, then leans back into the solid breadth of Bruce's chest. "Yeah. Thinking about you."

"Mmm. Anything in particular? There is a lot of me to think about."

There's a hand working down the front of his boxers and a mouth lapping at the join of his neck and shoulder, providing a significant distraction to actually getting his tongue around a coherent reply. "This. Everything. I don't know..."

He groans and lets his head fall back onto Bruce's shoulder as the hand starts working him at a steady pace. His hand stays braced against the glass while he shifts his feet to give himself a better center of gravity as Bruce sets about trying to rock his world in an entirely different sense.

"Couldn't wait to get you over here," Bruce is murmuring against his throat, breath hot and teeth sharp in the hollow under his jaw. "Want to give you everything all the time."

Clark makes an aborted attempt to turn around, then just settles for reaching up with his free hand and fisting it into Bruce's thick hair, rocking his hips up into Bruce's fist as it keeps stripping his cock at a faster pace. This is one of the things he loves about them together. They don't have to say much at all, but they both understand exactly what they're trying to get across.

"God, Bruce..."

He's leaking precome all over Bruce's hand and the inside of his boxers, and even though it's still embarrassing, all these years later, it feels _so good_ he can't find the energy to give a damn.

Clark chokes on a garbled cry of Bruce's name, then shudders as he comes over Bruce's fist and all over his belly. He jerks and shakes with it, overwhelmed even in spite of the fact that this is the opposite of anything new. Maybe it's that even a decade later, they can still be so utterly raw and honest with each other.

He slumps back into Bruce's arms and they gradually collapse to the floor, limbs tangled together, heedless of the mess he's already made.

Bruce's fingers card through his hair, and Clark settles a little more firmly against him. "Is this alright?"

"What..?"

"This....the hotel, the trip, me."

"Bruce, I've been here for ten years, you're not gonna scare me off with an all-expenses paid getaway to Venice."

"....there's no harm in being sure."

"Well, let's just make sure you know _how_ sure I am about that."

"...... _Clark-!_ "


	5. the days were long and the sun was warmer (for @peterqill with the prompt "kent farm")

It's the gentle scraping of shoes against the worn planks of the porch that prompts him to swing his head up, glancing over his shoulder as Martha emerges from the modest house, a gentle smile on her lips as she approaches.

Bruce moves over on the stair he's taken up residence on to make room for her, despite the fact that she's infinitely petite enough to fit in the space already there. Sometimes he feels like he'll break her just by hugging her, and he can't imagine how Clark felt once he hit adulthood with the full range of his strength at his fingertips. Still, there's far more to Martha Kent than meets the eye.

The fact that she shares a name with his own mother is only the first of many uncanny things he's discovered about her. She was almost killed by the invading force of Kryptonians prior to the battle in Metropolis, but she stood up to them regardless, her belief and complete trust in her son bolstering her enough to stand up to invincible armored soldiers with nothing but her own two fists and sharp tongue as weapons. Conflicts and feats of bravery aside, she raised a veritable god in this world and he turned out better than most humans. That alone has him humbled whenever he stands (or sits) in her presence.

She, and her late husband, took Clark in with no thought for themselves. They feared that the government would come banging on their door to tear him away, but that never came to pass. They raised him as they would have a child of their own, giving him all the attention and love that his birth parents only hoped he would have. As his powers manifested, they simply accepted it. They taught him to control it, rather than letting fear and suspicion control him. They taught him patience and tolerance, even towards those who showed him nothing but contempt. They taught him what it means to be human, for someone who remains the living answer to the age-old question of whether or not the human race is alone in the universe.

In short, Martha and Jonathan Kent saved the world.

That irrefutable fact never fails to drop the ground out from beneath his feet, leaving him scrambling for stable footing. He never feels quite worthy of her time, let alone that of her son's.

He hadn't meant to fall in love with the alien who performs miracles across the world or dives into the corona of the sun like it's nothing but the placid surface of a lake. He hadn't meant to fall in love with _anyone_ , but here they are.

"Penny for your thoughts, love?" Martha knocks her shoulder against his, smiling at him in the way only a mother can manage.

Bruce swallows, alarmed by the sudden tightness in his throat, then turns and tucks his head against her neck, hunching over a bit so she doesn't have to lift her chin to accommodate him. Martha makes a quietly concerned sound, then wraps him in her delicate arms, bringing one hand up to smooth her fingers through his hair in a slow, soothing pattern.

He's never felt safer anywhere else in the world.

"He hasn't shut up about that girl since you showed up on our doorstep with her, you know," Martha nods to the paddock near the barn where Clark is putting the handsome chestnut mare through her paces. They've been getting along rather fantastically, as Bruce had desperately hoped would be the outcome.

"I was afraid I'd gone overboard," he confesses quietly, throat still tight. "I just ... I want everything to be good for him."

Martha hums to herself for a few moments, still smoothing her fingers through his hair like she must have done with Clark as a boy. "We haven't had the luxury of horses since he was a tiny thing. But he loved them. Loved it when Jonathan would take him out and let him try out some saddles in the ring. The horses loved him, too, which was remarkable to us. Maybe they sensed all those things about to happen with him. Maybe they knew before all of us. I'll never be able to say."

They both watch Clark in silence for a few minutes, admiring the fluidity of his movements in time with the mare's. He gets out of the saddle every so often and puts her back on the longe line he brought out that morning, giving her a chance to work up to speed without his bulk on her back to slow her down.

"He's damn lucky to have you, you know," Martha pulls back slightly, giving Bruce a thorough once over. "I thought so when he first brought you out here, and I keep thinking so every time you find your way back."

Bruce straightens on the stair, rubbing a hand over his face while he looks out to where Clark is back in the saddle, weaving the mare through the ground poles.

"He could do so much better."

"You're putting him on a pedestal he has no business being on. And cutting yourself down in the same breath," Martha's tone is fondly exasperated, but she's still smiling. "For God's sake, Bruce, I could care less if you two ever got on the horse, pun very much intended, and got hitched. You're as much my son as he is. And I won't have any of that talk. Understood?"

Bruce finds himself laughing in spite of himself, a rueful smile curving his lips as he shakes his head and wraps his arms around his bent knees. "Ma'am, yes, ma'am."

"That's more like it," Martha rises to her feet and cuffs him over the head before brushing off the backs of her jeans and making to head back into the house. "Now come in here and help me with lunch. That boy'll be starving when he remembers there're things to be doing other than playing with his new best friend."

Bruce stands, casting his gaze back to the paddock before he turns to the house. Clark's perched elegantly in the saddle, giving the mare a gentle pat on her neck. He glances up and sees Bruce, and promptly raises a hand, waving as an impossibly bright grin splits his face.

Unable to do anything else, Bruce waves back, echoing the smile with one of his own. And, for the first time all day, it doesn't feel forced at all.


End file.
